Page 125 of Chokehold
“I know what’s going on.”
I stiffen. “You do?”
“It’s on the news.”
Crossing the room, I switch on the TV on my dresser. Two pictures, side by side, of Cole and his mom fill the screen. My butt meets the springy mattress. I swallow hard. Tiago’s voicedrifts in and out of my consciousness. It didn’t feel real earlier, not like this.
“What can I do to help?” he asks. “I’ve got Ronnie on the other line, too.”
I lower the phone and stare at his smiling photograph before pressing it to my ear again. What can he do? Maybe my father is right. Is there nothing we can do? We don’t know where they are or even where to start searching.
“I don’t know,” I reply, feeling so damn useless. Cole must be so scared. My heart aches at the thought, and the urge to smash something to bits—to break and destroy things—floods through me. I’m up on my feet in the next second, the phone forgotten on the bed.
Tearing the lamp from my nightstand, I throw it full force at the wall. Nothing survives my burning fury. I throw and punch and kick and rage. I overturn the desk chair and unleash all my pent-up anger by driving my boot into it over and over again until my T-shirt sticks to the sweat on my back and my muscles burn with exertion. I barely notice.
When I finally look up, I pause.
Dad stares at me in the doorway, shock written on his face. It’s only now that the extent of my fury dawns on me. My gaze drifts over my destroyed bedroom, which looks like a tornado swept through it and uprooted everything. I’m shaking all over with adrenaline. My teeth chatter.
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and then he turns around and leaves. I stare at the gaping doorway, but he doesn’t return.
Exhaustion swoops in, and I plop down on the mattress, which is now void of pillows and a blanket.
Tiago’s tinny voice disturbs the silence. “Blaise? Talk to me. Are you okay?”
Burning pain seers up my ribs, warm blood seeping from my fingers as the car speeds out of the parking lot and onto the road. The trunk is large in the cop car, and I bounce around as he takes a sharp left, hitting my head on something hard.
I hiss through the pain. I don’t know if the bullet went right through, or if it went haywire inside me. All I know is that I feel dizzy and I’m lying in a pool of my own blood.
I can hear my dad talking, yelling, telling whoever is on the other end of the line to set something up. He shouts my name, but all I can do is tense everywhere and try to stay conscious. I can’t pass out. I can’t fucking close my eyes and let myself go. I need to fight through this somehow.
Rolling onto my left, I spit a curse through my teeth as I move onto the wound.
Sweat clings to my skin, or it’s blood. I don’t know. It’s sticky and warm, and my eyes sting as I force myself to stay awake. Feeling around the roof of the trunk, I hunt for a lever or a button, but my arm keeps getting tired, and my hand drops.
My breathing grows heavy, my eyes heavier, and when he goes over a bump, I try to snap out of the daze. I haven’t adjusted to the darkness. I can’t see shit, but I can hear him speeding up.
“Fuck,” I mutter. Each breath feels like I’m inhaling fire into my lungs. I think every time I move, the skin splits even more, and shit, it hurts.
Blinking through my dizziness, I use my free hand to feel around again as the car slows, turning right. Dad is yelling again, telling someone to be ready because I’m injured.
Who? Who is helping him?
Where are we going?
I wince as I roll onto my side again, holding my breath and counting until the extreme pain settles, but it only gets worse when I roll again, each time he turns the car.
The smoothness of the wheels on the ground changes. Bumpy. Gravel. We’re on a gravel road, or a dirt road?
He’s not yelling anymore.
The car slows to a sudden stop, and I hear the car door being thrown open and slammed. “Do you have what you need?” I hear my dad ask someone. They must nod or whisper a reply. “He’s in the trunk.”
Their footsteps grow close. Someone is standing right there, and I think I might be sick. My eyes are so damn heavy, but I need to fight. I need to get the fuck away from him.
As soon as that trunk opens, I’ll fucking dive on them, throw my fists and make sure I don’t let him win this time. He can’t use any weakness on me, because Blaise isn’t here, and my mom is?—
The trunk flies open to my mother’s worried, traitorous eyes.
